When the whumpee wakes up in bed after getting badly hurt, and they almost immediately try to get up, but the caretaker puts a hand on their shoulder and holds them down, telling them to take it easy and not move so much yet. The whumpee trying to insist that they’re fine and they can get up, only to realize that while they normally were much stronger than the caretaker, the caretaker was managing to easily hold them down, and that maybe they weren’t as alright as they thought.
The girl stole into the bathroom, easing the door shut behind her before she flicked on the light. It blinded her for a minute but was not distraction enough to silence her bladder. She threw herself onto the toilet seat and sighed, tinkling echoing through the space.
When she was finished relieving herself, she stood before the mirror. She stared at her face, reflected back, the rays of starlight shining from her pores. She smiled at herself, at the extra bright twinkling at the tip of her nose. As the handle turned below her hand, and water spilled from the faucet, she leaned in closer. Fingers under the icy stream, her eyes roamed her face. Inches from the mirror, she could see even greater detail: long, light lashes curving up, the neatly-formed Cupid’s bow of her lips, and—
And a red spot. There, up near the tapered point of her widow’s peak, an ugly red bump stood out against the pale star-glow of her skin. Her hand, still wet, reached up to touch—it was raised slightly, and hurt if she pressed on it.
The girl knew what this was, knew that it might have been coming. Her mother warned her that often, these bumps came side by side with womanhood, with blood from strange places and growths on her chest. Her mother had also warned her to leave such bumps well enough alone. Don’t pick the bumps, her mother had said. They hold your starlight inside them, and when you mess with them, a little starlight escapes. You don’t want to lose your light, do you?
Don’t pick, the girl reminded herself. Don’t pick. She whispered this like a mantra, like a prayer, the whole tip-toed journey back to her bed. The words slowly sung her back to sleep.
Morning found the girl before the mirror once again, fingers at her hairline. Don’t pick, she remembered, but what could be so bad about simply touching? And so the girl touched in the morning, and on the way to school, and in class, and at the dinner table, and as she lay in bed to sleep that night. The girl was still touching when she arose from slumber for her nightly adventure to the bathroom.
Fingers pressed against the bump, and eyes stared at the bump, and the girl thought about the bump, how it felt full under her skin, like a water balloon waiting to be burst against the ground. She’d never seen someone pick before—her mother certainly hadn’t—but how bad could it be?
Two fingernails, a squeeze, and the girl was left staring at a small crater, a little round dark patch near her hairline where the spot was—where the spot used to be. The darkness stunned her. Her starlight had spilled, just like her mother said it would.
There was no hiding the crater. Come morning, her mother saw, and thoroughly scolded her. Don’t pick again. If it’s just one crater, maybe no one will notice. The girl nodded, reminded herself over and over not to pick at the bumps. Don’t, she firmly instructed herself. Then the girl found another red spot, and another. She held out longer this time, three days instead of one, but eventually, she caved. Eventually, she picked. She picked every time.
By the time the girl had grown into a woman, she had picked away all her starlight. She was left with only craters and the shimmery reflection of others’ glow, when it happened to bounce off of her nose. The woman walked among the stars, close enough to be blinded by their light, but never a star herself.
Her mother had no craters. Her sisters had no craters. No one she knew had craters like hers, looked at all like her. No one else had picked away their starlight.
And so the woman hated her craters. She stared up at the full moon hanging in the sky, shining softly through the window of her apartment. No, not shining, the woman reminded herself. Reflecting. She felt a sympathy, a bond with the rock in the sky. It was stuck here, in a place far removed from the stars, alone, but still forced to reflect their light. What a cruel life the moon led, thought the woman. How lonely, how alone is the moon?
How lonely, how alone am I?
The woman with many craters walked alone to the store. She said hello to no one. She waved to no one. She simply trudged down the sidewalk, through the automatic sliding doors of the 24-hour grocery store and made her way into the bread aisle. She stood, staring at the plastic twist ties looped around seven different brands of the exact same white bread.
“Sorry, excuse me.”
Another person’s voice broke her reverie. As the woman stepped back, her face (and craters) swiveled to look at the person grabbing a loaf off the shelf. Dark hair, in tight braids down her back, stark against a yellow sweater. Long legs, clad in dark jeans. The stranger stood, and turned to go—
She had no starlight.
Her face was smooth, no craters to be seen, but still. No starlight. Instead, her skin, even brown in most places, gave way to pale shapes across her face. A patch of lighter skin around her eye, another around her mouth—continents floating on the ocean of her skin.
“You have no starlight.” Both women spoke in unison, astonishment bleeding through their tone.
The woman with the craters ran her fingers over her cheek. “I used to, once. Then these bumps appeared, and I picked at them and tried to change them. Now I have craters, and no starlight.”
“I used to have starlight, too.” The woman with the continents twirled the end of her braid between her fingers. “Then, one day, the first spot appeared, then another, then everywhere I found these patches. Now I have these continents of white, and no starlight.”
The confessions hung between, obituaries to their former beauty. Then they laughed, and the spell was broken, and they talked. They talked in the bread aisle, at the checkout, down the block. They continued to talk, over the telephone, long after they had parted ways.
“The worst part is when I reflect someone else. People mistake that for my starlight, and they’re disappointed when they look closer.” The woman with the craters sighed, head resting just below the continent on her girlfriend’s chin. The night sky hung heavy above them, as they sat on the grass, staring up.
The woman with continents put an arm around her girlfriend. “Some people only have eyes for starlight, so they only love the full moon.” She paused, looking down at her girlfriend’s face, dips and craters only just visible. “My favorite moon is the new moon. You don’t see any starlight at all. The moon is dark. I stare up at the sky for hours, finding as many of the details as I can. I lose myself so fully in the sight of the moon, that the light of the stars ceases to matter.”
Both women stared at the blank space in the heavens where they knew the moon to be. Then the woman with craters smiled softly. “Sometimes I dream about what Earth looks like from space. Light colors splashed against dark, gently curving coastlines and islands where the colors meet. The Earth doesn’t glow with starlight, but it doesn’t need to. In place of light, it has life, warm and vibrant and wonderful. Who would ever want to look at the stars, if they could look at the Earth instead?”
The two watched the skies a little longer, then went back inside.
Later, when they kissed goodnight, each woman’s eyes lingered just a little longer on the other’s face. Craters and continents, close to each other and far from the stars, in an orbit all their own. Maybe losing their starlight wasn’t so bad after all.
Anonymous asked:
For the mini whump prompts? Alex and given the choice between an oven and a mop? Heat or drowning - which will he pick?? (Also! I adore all your stuff but can't reblog because I only have my main and people would Know that I am not ready to Know about Whump. but I do want to say I appreciate all you do!!)
thoughtsonhurtandcomfort answered:
That’s ok! I completely understand. I lurked for a long time before caving to making a blog and couldn’t reblog stuff either. My previous blog’s followers would have thought I was hacked. :’)
Thanks for the prompt :D
Content Warnings: tiny whump, shrunken, torture, choice of torture, water, drowning, weakness, unconsciousness, bonus touch-starved Arinn
Whumptober - day 8 - Head Trauma
a little redraw/sequel to this old painting
the cleric and the wizard
ghost whumpee who is lonely.
ghost whumpee who doesn’t know they’re dead.
ghost whumpee, who died after whumper killed them, frantically running back to caretaker and not being able to understand why caretaker ignores them and their crying this time.
ghost whumpee who only realizes they’re dead after days of following caretaker around, and not understanding why caretaker is sad or why they won’t talk to them, until caretaker visits someone’s grave with a rose in their hand —
“where are we going?” ghost whumpee’s question is met with silence from caretaker’s side.
then comes a soft “oh,” from ghost whumpee’s lips when they see their own name on the tombstone.
a predatory creature who mimics the sound of their previous victim as to lure another (potential) victims in. so — as a group of the surviving characters hide from the creature — they are forced to listen to the sound of their dead friend, from the mouth of the creature, screaming in excruciating pain during their final moment when they were mauled to death by said creature.
the surviving characters know their friend is already dead, and that it’s the creature mimicking their friend’s voice, but it’s still extremely hard to hear how scared their friend was, and to not rush out of their hiding spot towards the direction in which the sound comes from (knowing it wasn’t going to be their friend but instead they’d be running right towards the creature) as the creature keeps on howling in their dead friend’s voice.
special thanks to Annihilation for the inspiration behind this juicy trope. literally my most favorite scene from the movie.
Lil’ Tip
I see two common formulas when a character is severely hurt
injured >> panic >> faint
or
injured >> hide it >> faint
While these two formulas are great, I am here to propose other things people do when they are in severe physical pain. pain to this degree throws a persons entire body out of wack, show it!
here are some other less commonly found things people do when they’re in severe pain:
feel free to add more in comments/reblogs!
